CHARLIE HEART

CHAPTER FIFTEEN: WILLIAM JOHN PAUL

WILLIAM JOHN PAUL

         Tommy has his arms around Dippenhammer and Sheila’s chair is tipped over from the impact. She is sprawled out on the floor face down, spread out eagle style. Bruce stares up at me from in between my legs. He looks shocked, I want to tell him ‘I told you so’ but I don’t.
         I nurse my whiplashed neck by rubbing it for a while, then I get the nerve to look outside the gaping glass holes that were my windows. There are flames everywhere, the trees, the cars, the lower half of the building, all on fire.
         Tommy says, “did I mention that G.J. had me build one of the micro reactors in a voice responsive record player?” This is a rhetorical question. One that makes me look at him and want to kill him.
         What next? Why, Ginger, why?
         Ginger Jainkins.
         Ginger Jainkins.
         Ginger Jainkins.
         Where have I heard that name before?
         Jainkins.
         Jainkins.
         I say the name over and over. It’s always been how I handle big questions in life. I would just say it over and over until something snaps, as if to annoy the answer long and hard enough an maybe it will just give in and let me have it.
         Sheila is moaning. “OH, my hip!”
         I’m thinking, Ginger.
         Ginger.
         Ginger.
         I wish I had what Ginger had -- that great epiphany she keeps talking about. The one where you all of a sudden knew exactly what you needed to do in life and how to do it, or something like that. You knew the reason for everything. Or thats how she made it seem.
         Sheila yells out. “Oh, my spleen.”
         I’m think, Ginger.
         Why?
         We just met.
         I don’t understand.
Now, I’m dizzy, covering in glass and wind blown. Bruce is checking my vitals and I’m pushing him away.
         Sheila screams “Oh, my kidneys.”
         I crawl over to the old woman. I hover above her, trying helplessly to figure out if there is anything I can do. I’m no doctor though, and the sirens are close. Bruce grabs me and tosses me off of her. He says he’s certified.
         For what, I think to myself. He flips her over onto her back and she moans. Bruce can’t help her. He acts as helpless as I look.
         Tommy is saying something to Dippenhammer, who is saying something back. I can’t hear what, because my ears are humming like a chorus of dog whistles. They are crouched down on the ground like kids in a torn up sandbox. Dirty and covered in crap. Tommy doesn’t seem to mind though.
         My brain is spinning. Ginger!
         Tell me!
         Please.
         Tell me.
         TELL ME!
         Sheila says, “I think I’m having a heart attack!”
         Bruce looks at me with a terrified expression. He doesn’t mean to, it’s just desperation.
         I run to my medicine cabinet. The edges of my vision are getting a little blurry. I’m jumbling around for anything. Aspirin. Excedrin. Tylenol. Ibuprofen. Pepto bismol. Nothing. I should have been a doctor, either that or a drug dealer.
         I run back over to her with something called Darvocet. It says it’s a pain killer on the bottle. I put a few in her mouth for her and she looks at me like I just threw flour in her face.
         Bruce tell me to get away.
         She yells, “My heart!”
         And there it is, like a wide swinging open door. A light bulb. My little spark. My mind blowing epiphany. My apple pie, a beautiful answer.
         I shout, “that’s it, a heart attack!”
         “I’ll be right back,” I say.
         I’m running to my office as best I can without tripping. I bust open the door and jump over one of the fallen cabinets and over and behind my desk. I pick up my chair, sit, and go to work on opening up one of my drawers. It’s the big drawer, the one I use to keep secrets in.
         I spin the lock off and tear it open. I scan through a series of yellow file folders strategically placed in alphabetical order for such occasions.
         “Here it is,” I pull out an older looking folder, slam it down on the desk and flip it open. I read it out loud, “William John paul, heart failure. Ninety one, has no private or government aid and a low chance of receiving from a donor at this point. Desperate for financial support and seems good minded enough to keep a secret.”
         I remember writing all this information down years ago.
         “I have been able to establish and maintain a strong relationship, ready to make the offer.”
         I rub under my red eyes and take in a deep one. The words take me back, it feels like yesterday. I remember very clearly that night, sitting in that hospital room with William John paul. Flowers in one hand, paperwork in the other.
         He had just had a heart attack hearing that his son had been shot and killed with his wife. His granddaughter sat on a chair across the room, parentless.
         She sat there crying, something like fourteen or fifteen; legs curled up into her chest, knees covering those wet green eyes, eyes like mint chocolate ice cream.
         I remember William wanting me to meet his daughter’s daughter. He was so proud of her, so smart and beautiful. He said, the banks absorbed all her Mommy and Daddy’s assets when they died, so she had nothing. He said neither one of them had life insurance either. But he did, Grandpa William had life insurance and that would take care of her when he goes.
         William John Paul. One of my first viatical settlements I ever wrote. One of my first policies I ever stole. It was only seventy thousand dollars, but I wrote it, I stole it, and I was so pleased with myself.
         He obviously didn’t fully understand what I was doing. I walked away leaving her with nothing and taking what left of her last living relative she had left. That was when I really didn’t care about people, that was a long time ago, and that would explain a lot.
         But the thing that stands out the most to me was what William called her. He didn’t call her Ginger, it was Sara. He said Sara Jainkins. Maybe my mind was fuzzy, that was years and years ago.
         Look at me. Falling for someone who has, no doubt, spent her whole upbringing planing my death. I sure no how to pick em’. All I want to do is hold her in my arms and dance. I just want to dip her to the sound of Sinatra’s voice. I don’t want to watch anymore spanish soaps because they would all be about her. Call me winey, I can’t help it.
         You now realize you deserve to die. You deserve pain and you are nothing more than the insect under your shoe. I can’t help but think of those female spiders that slice the heads off the males and eat their brains just after conceiving.
         You now realize that your pores are slurping out thick, sticky, drops of sweat. You now realize your eyes are dry and you need to blink. You now realize that your life is over.
         I go back to my dead end thoughts of dying. Maybe dying was the answer. Maybe she was supposed to kill me. Some circle of life thing. Some messed up karma natural wonder.
         Maybe.
         On my roof top she said she was sick. Sick with what? Insanity?
         The fire men break down the front door and start screaming for everyone to remain calm. This scares me more than the explosion did. I lean back in my chair and pretend like I am dead, I want to be dead.
         One of them says, ‘over here’ and points at me. Two of them are picking me up and I don’t realize until now that I am bleeding all down my left side, this can’t be right, where is all this blood from?
         When I touch the back of my head I get a palm full of thick mucky red. It looks like liquid rust to me.
         Now is when I get nauseous and my vision blurs all the way. I don’t think I need to pretend I’m dying now.
         They drag me over the ground and into my smoke filled, trashed, blown out living room. They lay me next to Sheila on the ground, she looks at me and she smiles.
         She tells me that one day, she knows my mother will come back for me. I don’t say anything. She reaches over and grabs my hand and gives it the best squeeze she can before she goes. I focus on her eyelids. I don’t know if she is dead or just unconscious, neither would surprise me. All I know is wherever she is right now is where I want to be.
         I squeeze her hand back. Good night Sheila, I’ll see yah there, good night.